Saturday, January 26, 2013

I don't know how many souls I have.I've changed at every moment.I always feel like a stranger.I've never seen or found myself.From being so much, I have only soul.A man who has soul has no calm.A man who sees is just what he sees.A man who feels is not who he is.

Attentive to what I am and see,I become them and stop being I.Each of my dreams and each desireBelongs to whoever had it, not me.I am my own landscape,I watch myself journey—Various, mobile, and alone.Here where I am I can't feel myself.

That's why I read, as a stranger,My being as if it were pages.Not knowing what will comeAnd forgetting what has passed,I note in the margin of my readingWhat I thought I felt.Rereading, I wonder: "Was that me?"God knows, because he wrote it.

The light enters and I remember who I am; he is there.
He begins by telling me his name ( it should now be clear) is mine.
On the last flight of stairs I feel him at my side,
He is in my foot steps ,in my voice.Down to the last detail,I abhor him.I am in a circular cell and the infinite wall is closing in.